Tales from the Tent

by Jess Smith

  ‘Well, vicar, I received this morning a letter.’ He removed it from his pocket and handed it to the vicar. ‘Please, could you explain, if you can, why it has turned my dear, sweet mother against me?’ The vicar smiled, reassuring his visitor that his mother had obviously read it wrongly. ‘No mother would do such a thing, especially yours.’ He unfolded the page and sat down, popping a pair of one-legged glasses over his nose. For a minute he paused, then without warning reached into an umbrella stand, retrieved a golf-brolly and started thumping the poor lad over the shoulders. ‘Get out and take that, that thing, with you.’ Johnny gathered up his letter and dashed for the safety of the front door. Once outside he thought ‘nothing, no matter what, would make the old, gentle vicar react in such a fashion, some one just has to explain what is in this letter.’

  How, though, could he show it to people? He needed a plan. Soon the paper with its demonic contents was folded safely in a leather wallet, only to be shown to whomever he deemed completely trustworthy. For a while he lived a quiet existence, living in a tiny flat high up in a tall tenement building, speaking to no one. He got a job in the bucket lorries, working very hard and deliberately keeping his letter a secret.

  Then one morning, during a torrential downpour, he met Sally; he was sheltering in the café doorway where she worked as a waitress. Seeing how wet he was, she invited him in for a warm cup of coffee. They immediately fell head-over-heels in love. Within six months they were wed, but not once during that time did Johnny tell Sally about the letter eating away at his heart. Then one night he asked her a question: ‘do you love me more than anything?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do, darling, you should never have any doubts.’

  ‘If I show you something, will you solemnly promise me not to let our love rule your head?’

  ‘Nothing could spoil our life together, absolutely nothing, now what is it?’

  Johnny sat his love down on their bed and very carefully unfolded the letter from its wallet. Not taking his eyes off her face, he handed Sally the tormenting document. ‘Perhaps like me she won’t be able to read it,’ he prayed.

  That night with his torn cheek and blackened eyes Johnny again found himself wandering the streets, destitute and alone. Would he ever know the true contents of the letter?

  Next morning, along with other street tramps, he was rounded up and moved on by the local police. One policeman spoke to him and enquired why he had ended up on the streets? Frightened to speak to anybody, let alone the law, Johnny turned and ran as fast as he could down an alleyway. The policeman, thinking he was a criminal, gave chase. It was easy catching poor Johnny, with him being hungry and battered. Soon he was sitting in a prison cell, a shattered man, and he hadn’t a clue why. ‘Look,’ he screamed at four other men sharing his cell, ‘see what I have. Do you want to kill me or hang me from the ceiling by your shoelaces? Come on then, tell me what is in this letter first.’ Poor unfortunate thing, he would rather have died than never to have known why this awful letter plagued him so. An old man stood up and took the letter from Johnny’s fingers. He sat down, took a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and began to read.

  ‘Please don’t hit me, I beg you,’ Johnny wriggled on the floor like a cowed dog. ‘Please, mister, just tell me what it says.’

  Slowly, with fire raging in his eyes, the old man leaned down and said, ‘why, do you not know what this says?’

  Johnny cried into his jacket sleeve that he just hadn’t a clue.

  ‘When you get out of here, go and visit this old Chinaman, he will tell you what to do.’ The man handed Johnny a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it.

  Soon, address firmly clasped in the desperate man’s hand, he set off to find the wise Chinaman. At long last they faced each other, with Johnny’s existence depending on what he’d be told, please God.

  The same scenario unfolded with the Chinaman threatening to cut off his head with a Chinese War sword and Johnny begging for his life. He told him that the man in the prison cell had said he would help him. The slightly-built little man thought for a moment, then said, ‘Before I copy this into English you must solemnly promise to follow my instructions to the very last letter.’

  ‘As I live and breathe, old man, I will do all you say.’

  ‘When I copy this I will seal it inside an envelope, then inside a metal box, and you must take yourself to a far-off shore. Find a boat and row miles and miles until you are completely alone, remember no one must be anywhere near you. Then, and only then, remove the letter and read it.’

  Johnny gave his word, hand on heart, thanked the small man and did all he asked.

  In mid-Atlantic we now find him bobbing alone in his little skiff, miles from anything remotely human. Beads of sweat begin to trickle down his face into a dry hot body. His breath now comes in short pants. He opens the metal box, a seagull screeches high above him and he dives under a tarpaulin. The sky is once again clear, there is nothing further to delay him. Hands quiver, as inch by inch he unfolds the letter. He holds it up, then opens sunburnt eyelids and, and, and—swoosh! A GUST OF WIND BLOWS IT OUT OF HIS HANDS.

  If you feel like hitting me, folks, then that’s exactly how I felt when first hearing this. Sorry, but some you win and some you lose.

  Not very nice to you, am I? Still, after spending all this time with me, I’m sure you’ll forgive and forget.

  22

  BACK ON THE ROAD

  Back to Manchester now, and we find a cold January has passed without much happening, except for one thing, though, a job for Saturdays. To make a wee bit extra I took a job at the open market selling outsized shoes for an old Jewish gent called Jeremiah. He owned several shoe stalls at the Cheetam Hill Road market.

  For a whole day from eight in the morning until four in the dark afternoon I stood trying my utmost to sell the ugliest shoes I’d ever set eyes on. There were size nines and tens, aye, even elevens of every colour of the rainbow, white patent boat-like things and the most horrible black shiny ones. Believe it or not, my friends, but those shoes of various extremes were made to adorn the female foot! Jeremiah insisted that everything could be sold, it wasn’t the item, it was the seller. So he, that wily old bent-backed gent, who instantly reminded you of a character from a Dickens novel, taught me how to charm those chuckit shoes onto female feet. The customers, those sadly misinformed ladies, purchased shoes that, I’m sorry to say, made them look more like shoed penguins than anything else. I can still to this day see them smile when I lied and said they were a perfect fit, and that they didn’t half go with their outfits, or hair or eyes. I even sold deliberately, as pairs, one size nine and one ten. Old Jeremiah swore we all have one foot larger than the other. For all that hard sell I earned a measly ten shillings. However I must be honest, and say it was a grand way to learn how to duck when a woman of over six feet threw a pair of bad fitting shoes at you!

  Well, folks, at long last winter is over. Mammy is whistling while sewing bonny tartan curtains for the trailer, and Daddy has purchased, for the coming months’ spray-painting season, a new compressor. Although he went through the last few months bronchitis-free, little did he know how much it was to plague him in the future, and all because of his unhealthy way of making a living. Nicky said his goodbyes to the ‘bints’ he’d befriended, although come to think of it, I only ever met one. I’d say by looking at her the blonde wasn’t real and she’d not see forty again, but who was I to judge?

  Portsoy said that once he was over the border he’d go another road from us, but would make his way to the ‘berries’ in July. My young sisters, like me, were becoming more restless with each sighting of daffodils. All our talk was of who we’d see first when home again in the Perthshire glens, or anywhere over the border, come to think of it, as long as it smelt like shortbread and had the seal of Scotland set upon it.

  It was sad, I must say, seeing those unfortunate creepy-crawlers sharing goodbyes with my mother. What would they do now for the
free booze and hot treacle scones she so lovingly baked for them? They’d go back to lying by day under the mountain of plastic cuttings, and spend nights raking food buckets at the rear of hotels and restaurants. So farewell, you Brasso braggarts, may the guid God show you a healthier road to walk upon.

  Before we parted from the bustling city our friend Jim, the Fife policeman, had to have his dram. That night he came in as always and we toasted his health, me and my sisters with blackcurrant cordial, Daddy and Mammy, Portsoy and Nicky with the amber spirit. I swear, when big Jim left our caravan that night, his eyes were meeting in the middle. I hope to God he didn’t come across any crimes taking place.

  Daddy swithered before leaving about whether to head south for the hop-picking, but I think Mammy was hankering to see the older girls, after all she was a Granny now, and like grannies the world over she needed a cuddling at the wee yins.

  On the road we settled down until Carlisle came into view. We stopped off here for a day or two while Mammy did a bit of hawking. The day before we left, Daddy took me into the town and surprised me to tears. Without a word he guided me into a posh jewellery shop and asked the assistant to show a tray of their best gold hoops—gypsy-style. I picked the cheapest: he put them back and chose the dearest. ‘Happy birthday, ma lassie,’ he said, draping an arm round my shoulder. I felt like a queen with my thick gold hoops dangling from my now sixteen-years-old lugs.

  As we drove back to the field outside Carlisle, no words were spoken, and to this day I remember the purity of those silent moments. The love between a daughter and her father can sometimes bridge an unseen river that, no matter the drought, never runs dry.

  Memories

  An oasis in a hostile world shared in silence,

  Twigs dancing in boiling water,

  Through the smoke our glances meet,

  And his dark eyes smile at me.

  No other movement, no spoken word,

  The glow comes not from the fire,

  But from deep within me, and I know no fear,

  He is my Dad—dark, still, strong.

  I am his child—safe, happy, protected.

  We drink our tea.

  Janet Keet Black

  Before we re-join the road, let me share the memory of one fateful summer’s afternoon. The time my dear mother stuck me with a darning needle.

  It was in Crieff while we were staying along the Broich road. This was an area where the Ministry of Defence used to barrack prisoners of war during WW2. Several Nissan huts and hangers had been left in situ. For a while a local farmer housed his pigs there. Many travellers, not having the canvas for tents, moved the pigs out and moved themselves in. I was only six years old when, with an envious eye, I noticed the pretty travelling girls with hooped earrings.

  Mammy was washing her usual mountain of clothes when Daddy’s auntie, old Jess Johnstone, came visiting. She was a sprightly old biddy who dressed totally in black, even covering her grey head with a thick, black, coarse head-square, tied tightly beneath a pointed chin. As she never failed to do during our stay in that field by the River Earn she eased her narrow frame into Mammy’s favourite seat next to the bus door and demanded a cup of tea. My mother, who by now was sweating like an Irish navvy, told Jess, ‘in a minute, auntie, in a minute.’

  This was when I made my big move: ‘Mammy, can I have my ears pierced?’

  ‘Lassie, can ye no see how busy I am? Later on, when I’ve time.’

  Old Jess by now was getting a bit thirsty, and her constant demands for tea had Mammy scrubbing Daddy’s thick woolly socks with a vigour to make the Irish navvy envious.

  ‘But Mammy, I deeked the barry hoopit chats the gouries a’ hud in their lugs, an please, Mammy dear, kin I nae have them tae?’

  ‘Jessie, shut your bloody mouth about hoops, or as sure as hell’s fire I’ll leather ye sore! Now clear off and play.’ Mammy was getting fair roused, but it wasn’t me who prompted her next act, oh no, it was that crabbit auld woman.

  ‘Kin an auld bent woman who’s brought up a dozen weans no git a drap tea fur her crackit throat in this place?’ Jess was by now constantly tapping her feet on the bus floor, adding that if Daddy were there he’d give her a cup o’ tea.

  Mammy lifted the corner of her damp apron, half-dried her soap-sudded hands, and with the force of a force ten gale threw the ribbed scrubbing board a mile in the air. Thud! It walloped off a big thick oak and fell to the ground, before bouncing several times and settling next to a pail of rinsing water. With enormous strides for a wee woman five feet one inch in height, my mother stooped under her seat, the very one old Jess was perched on, and hauled out her sowing basket. Purns of threads, darning-wool cards, yards of laces, thimbles and an assortment of gaily-coloured buttons were tossed up and over old Jess until Mammy found what she was looking for—her biggest needle, the Darner. ‘You, luggy, here!’ I didn’t stand a chance as she threw me over her wet knees and thrust the darner, dripping with Dettol, into one ear-lobe and then the other. Blood spurted down my neck as Mammy removed her own small, thinning gold hoops and pushed them into my newly-bored holes. I was too sore to scream and too shocked to think. I got what I wanted, but, by God, at what cost.

  Old Jess got such a shock she leapt from the bus, threw a handful of tea-leaves into the pot, and for the remainder of my mother’s washing day, cup followed cup of fresh tea. Folks who’d witnessed my mother’s heechy that warm summer’s day said not even a pig could squeal like me. I thought I’d never uttered a word, but according to them I was rending the air with my cries. It just goes to show what a fright can do to a buddy. It was a heavy price to pay for it, but in a few days my red ears had calmed down and I joined the rest of the hoopies. Daddy replaced Mammy’s earrings with a brand new pair. Those worn old battered rings she rammed into my ears all those years ago I keep in a wee silver box, as a reminder to a lassie who had learned what it was like to push a mother with the strength of an Irish navvy too far!

  Thought you might enjoy that wee bit of nostalgia, reader.

  When Daddy asked us all to vote on the way we should take from there, whether east or west, it was unanimous for going via the west coast with its rugged beauty and warmer sea. I felt the lump rise in my throat at the thought. To me there is no place more picturesque than my Scotland’s western coastline, and we knew every hidden bay and Atlantic inlet. I could taste the salt in my mouth.

  At Gretna we headed west along the A75 until Annan. Here we left the main road and travelled to Clarencefield, a tiny village where some travellers were camped further down beside the shore. Daddy knew them and was rare pleased to see that one in particular, a boyhood mate of his, was there. They were part of the Boswell Border folks, a grand lot. It was a delight to see the campfire burning bright and to hear the cant tongue flowing freely again.

  Another great treat for me was when an old tramp of the road joined us, who pulled a jew’s harp from his pocket, and while he and Mammy did a duet we all had a wild sing-song. I’ll just add this about why I have a lasting admiration for the gents of the road: it is because they were fuelled by the spirit of Mother Nature and not by allowing the evil demon lurking in a bottle to enter and demoralise their inner selves. You will understand why, because of this, I had little respect for the crawlers who softened my Mother’s heart in Manchester. Now, I should add, I have softened with age, and have learned never to judge my fellow man.

  As the remnant of the day gave way to the creeping of the night and angelic voices grew hoarse, we partook of my favourite pastime—storytelling.

  23

  THE KELPIE

  Many tales are told of the evil beast that haunts the ghostly gloaming in the Highlands, emerging from a deep loch or pool to bring an end to some poor unsuspecting soul. In the northeast the water horse, unlike in the west, never changes colour, staying a golden yellow whereas his western counterpart goes from black to light brown. There are also, in some parts, those who can change form to deceive. Then there are the �
��water wraiths’, tall, green-dressed females, all withered and scowling to herald one’s doom. However, folk tales of such a beast are not predominately told in the north. Galloway is where there is a dreadful creature, and here he is: the water kelpie.

  It was dark, and she knew fine well it was not a time for one as young as herself to be out. Had her parents not often warned her, ‘Lassie, if he sets on ye, then ne’er will he stop until you are his.’ Her heart beat faster with every step, for darkness was moving quicker than her feet. Shadows melted into the ground to become giant trees and bushes, wherein lurked the eyes of ever-seeing owls. What a relief for her to see, far down the valley, her parents’ house, and one of them waving a lantern of reassurance that she’d soon be home. Suddenly, while passing a deep pool in the river’s bend, from the corner of her eye she saw a flash of white. Startled, she turned to see a handsome young man alight from a beautiful, pure silver-coloured horse. Without saying a word, he gestured with an outstretched hand for her to come. For a moment she felt her head swoon and her slender body sway. Then a whistle brought reality spinning back, it was her father. Knowing what she did about the water kelpie that could shape-change, she turned and ran faster this time into the waiting arms of her anxious father. That night, unable to sleep, she sat staring into the darkness, watching him galloping back and forth, from hillock to glen to river.

  Come morning, her parents realised only too well that once the water kelpie has set eyes upon his prey he will stop at nothing until she is his. The lassie was packed off to live with an aunt, and there she lived, finding romance in the arms of a handsome young soldier who was not without a title or two.

  The day was set for their wedding, and as tradition has it they were to be wed in her hometown. People came from miles to see the pretty Galloway lassie marry her Duke. She was a picture of pure beauty standing at the altar of the flower-decked church.